You know, I don’t really care what your Astrogenic
‘star sign’ throws into the wind, it is a scene where
whatever I am is disgraced by analogy in terms of
failed appreciation of the ebulliently natural vitality
these mad dashes generate - that I’m somewhere
else in a sense of grasping the precious moment;
yeah for sure - wearing a flack vest when the shit
hits the fan tells long of that be-fraught history
Yet I can dance in the breeze without a thought -
you won’t see it as the same expression - not for
the reasons of a whim and a prayer; there’s only
your way to tend the conflagration when an urge
witlessly wears caution silent & the moment’s all
you need to show that proof’s reincarnation
© 21 October 2015, I. D. Carswell
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